Iizmir, Dragonborn of the North
by MerryRead
Summary: - A unique biography of one of Skyrim's modern heroes - (First two chapters are the equivalent of a foreword and an intro, so there's not much going on here yet. I probably won't update the story by chapter, because that'll take me too long. Not to mention the third chapter is already much much longer than the first two combined)
1. Note by Giraud Gemane, Bard's College

Pardon the preliminary intrusion on behalf of my part. It is however my belief some background information about the author in question might be in its rightful place here.

First and foremost, this book sees the day of light due to the fact my pupil's autobiographic tale will become an integral part of our history. I have not an ounce of doubt about it, as the Dean of History at Solitude. She has proven to be, after all, the legendary Dragonborn of prophecies, powerful wielder of the fearsome "thu'um", merciless vanquisher of Skyrim's foes. This very existence however bears a price, if only just for being around.

To begin with, Iizmir is a peculiar human. Or rather, a very 'multicultural being'. The identity of Dragonborn exhibits the fusion of both a draconic soul and (in this case) a human body. In other words, however much her appearance looks like a normal Nord, the person herself is also in possession of various attributes true to dragons. Magically adept, power-hungry and fierce to name a few. So went her own explanation about her essence and its related weaknesses anyway. After all, she attempted to convince me multiple times that writing this piece would be a worthless idea. "It will reveal too many character secrets." I do know better than casting it aside as "worthless", naturally.

Back to the topic at hand, the content still comes with a legitimate package of course. And this container consists of a female Nord - light-haired, brawny and brawly like most - with a lick of refinement in the intelligence and restoration departments. Draconic qualities, they have their advantages on one's personality. In contradiction, the Dragonborn we know also acts kind of … more primitive than others of the same race.

As if the dragon soul in human form wasn't enough by itself, she shows very animal-like tendencies. Not at all like a dragon. All the more like a canine. As it turns out, Iizmir seems to have been nurtured by wolves for a great portion of her juvenile life, most notably during early childhood. No wonder a certain language barrier exists between her and the rest of civilization. A barrier which may stay with her for the rest of her mortal corporeality. Despite the dragonborn heroine's great control over her powerful breath, it should prove as no surprise that her skills in the arts of words and song are slightly abysmal as a result. Henceforth, I have taken it upon myself to review her work before publication. No need to fret however. As overseer of a biography, one needs to uphold the honour by mindfully respecting the original (Nord …) author's language and intentions at all times. Even when particular sections strike you as 'unnecessary'. "Des goûts et des couleurs, on ne discute pas" like our predecessors once said. In short, only this foreword is written in accordance with my own mind.

The logical consequence of the Dragonborn's unique personality is almost literally a 'lone wolf'. With no family to take matters in hand, and her asocial, stubborn life style chasing away plausible people who could, she usually ends up trekking around on her own. Although she is often sought out due to her remarkable strength and famous feats, this fact always stands. Let's not beat around the bush and also ignore quite a few of them actually want to use her for their own devices however. Let's rather try to understand her predicament: the day Iizmir was recognized as the Last Dragonborn, was the day she lost her precious anonymity and tranquility. She became a target to both friend and foe, stranger and acquaintance, for better or for worse. Mostly for worse, I'm afraid. Relationships can just be so fickle. Despite everything, I wouldn't recommend underestimating her. A wild survivor from day 1, she isn't exactly trusting towards people. Probably not even suspicious. More like paranoid. But all in all, her strong will (and power) is most likely able to handle all of it. I personally would be astonished if she couldn't. She did open up and still is socializing with a multitude of personages, after all.

And that right there, my dear sirs and madams, is what they call "real strength". That's why this new series will be periodically appearing in a special magazine, found at our renown Bard's College! Also to eventually be published in book form, and sold for a cheap price! So let us together cheer on our dragon hunter extraordinaire. Let us follow her divine journey interwoven with wonder and distress, sacrifice and betrayal, affection and violence. Let us be the friends she doesn't need, but deserves. And enjoy the read of your lifetime!


	2. Quick shout-out

Right. So … Per Giraud's relentless requests and persuasions, I eventually decided on recording the recent happenings in my life. Never thought the life of a wild vagabond like me would be worth noting down, not even a small part. Then again, the events surrounding me were and still are quite astonishing and spectacular. Plus, the bugger told me to "do something useful with the **free** membership to the Bards' College, instead of seizing its Skyrim intelligence all the time". _Free_, he says. I wonder if he also had to tear through a tomb full of draugr with that aristocratic body structure of his, just to be able to join the college. Not knowing any better, you'd almost think he didn't care if I would've died. Sorry guys, it's just something I really have to howl about. Anyway, I can't risk losing my membership and its inclusive informative benefits over this, so I'll humour the man for now. Besides, the paper and charcoal are all free here. Really free, I mean. No suicidal conditions attached.

So where to start? From the moment of my precarious first meeting with Alduin, the magnificent dragon who started it all? Or from the instant I entered Skyrim; hungry, disheveled and hunted down like a mad dog? Or from even further back, my very youth, at least whatever I still remember about it? Maybe that'd be best, as to give an insight into who I am and how I became that person, which will explain most of my actions in this pretty brisk story.

However, let me give you a warning beforehand: I'm an absolute amateur at writing. After all, I've never written more than one page at a time (my hand is already starting to hurt now ...), and my reading and writing skills are purely self-taught. Or at least in this tongue.


	3. 1st Shout: Call of the Pack

My name is Iizlovaas do mirdogrohiik. Iizmir in short. Not Ysmir, IIZMIR. Thank you. That's what it officially is nowadays, anyway ... My true name faded away in the darkest holes of my brain, along with most memories of my past. I'm currently only able to remember the most gripping fragments of my life in the Cyrodilic village I was born in.

Our rural town must've been situated somewhere along the sandy shores of what I now assume to be Lake Rumare. At least, the image I have in my mind of a dark lake surrounding a big, brightly lit city seems to indicate this. It is mostly that shimmering mass I am able to recall, like a mirror reflecting the dim spirits of the moons as they curved over the distant city towers …

Whoaw. Hold up a second. I'm getting too poetic to my tastes here. Must be the influence of the Bard's College rubbing off on me, I guess. Somehow it seems I still hold the rare memories of my birth place very dear, even though I barely had the time to really call it home. Still, that's no reason to suddenly pretend I'm a professional poet. Anyway, on with the story, in a normal sense this time.

So it was there I was born, a couple of years before the start of the Great War. I've never known anything else besides the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion going after each other's throats. Despite this, our village was left relatively alone for a few years. Well, no doubt we had to pay mountain-high taxes and provide free food and lodgings to the Imperial army. But my parents were able to work in and survive off their large fields at peace, while our canine guardians kept track of all ongoings undisturbed. This latter task included protecting the small kid that I was. Gamrrr was the dog I had the best relationship with: we played together, slept together, rats, even shared food together. Not a single moment passed by without him by my side. He was like a big brother and best friend mixed together, only with a lot of hair and sharp teeth. And being a Skyrish wolfhound, very careful and gentle despite his enormous size. Although he might've better laid off on his obsessive cleaning tendencies. Seriously. Not rarely I found myself covered in drool thanks to him, even after a fresh bath.

In any case, despite the protection I received, I was not allowed to wander off too far from my human parents. No leaving the territory on your own, nope. And when she said no, it really meant no. Or there would be hell to pay. Especially since we're talking about mom here. I would learn her reasons soon enough, 'though. To my advantage, mom and dad were easily recognizable from afar thanks to their distinguishing colours and smells. Dad had a rather blackish and rural feel to him. He also sometimes wore an intense paint smell over him. Mom possessed a mostly whitish and savage atmosphere around her. Or well, forest- and wet fur-like? I can't decently describe it; this is how I perceived it back then at that young age. Due to these traits however, the family line was surely unchallenged. My inherited dark skin and white hair showed off exactly whose kid I was as clear as day. The modest clan tattoo adorning my face in the shape of a dark bird (I believe?) was rendered a bit useless with that, heh. Another noticeable feature consists of a permanent three slashes scar on my left cheek. This scar originates from a harsh and heavy battle with a mountain lion the height of a cave bear, which lasted several long days and nights. We both fought like our lives depended on it (which they actually did), brutally biting and tearing into each other in front of the wildly cheering villagers. At the end of the arduous fight the monstrous beast finally ran off, bloody and worn out, clearly chased away by my in the meantime developed mighty body … -smell. Hah. If I had been able to run away from myself, I certainly would've done so too. I gaggingly thought I'd die from suffocation.

Alright, I'll admit, I'm just messing with you now. I was obviously way too young for that. In fact, I believe to vaguely remember the scar is due to an unfortunate accident, which involved a big, mean, vicious chicken with sharp claws. Stupid bird didn't like to learn to fly apparently. Even though I caught it every time. I think. So in the ensuing scuffle, its nails somehow managed to get stuck in and deeply lacerate my cheek. After which it immediately escaped in a cloud of feathers and blood drops, leaving me behind with a heavily bleeding face, crying my lungs out. A face wound leaks a surprising lot of blood, let me tell you that. Well, the scar is too small for a big predator, so the 'heroic' story wouldn't be very believable anyway. I'd prefer my tale not to end like Ragnar The Red's, even if it would eventually make for a great song. Not much to enjoy about such an ending for me. I did however quite enjoy the chicken stew we got that same evening, courtesy of my dear mom. Considering she had reacted in quite a panicky way after discovering me in that bloody mess, I'm having the sneaky suspicion she must've actually been pretty vengeful in nature …

Back in the days I also received innumerable wounds from wolves, but those somehow never turned into lasting scars. My mother never really minded it either when I got such injuries for some reason. You must understand, these wolves were actually part of a family pack sharing territory with us. In other words, they were very affable to us, yes, almost affectionate. Shallow wounds and scars often resulted from rough play with or disciplinary actions from them, but were also immediately tended to by the animals themselves. In some way or another, the injuries they licked clean would never get infected. I and mom would get this treatment most, as my father was more aloof towards them.  
The pack always accompanied our family – both bipedal and furry members – when we visited the statue of the Hunter. Other people admiring that same statue acted a lot more tolerant and respectful towards the wild animals than your average man, sometimes even really delighted. The wolves themselves behaved rather reserved, albeit friendly. It was a strange, but homely gang of humans for sure.

Other people visiting our village were less nice. They bought and traded fresh products from us (or downright demanded it, in the case of the army), but that was about it. The wolves never showed themselves to them either. Maybe the reason behind it all can be found in the fact that they were mostly city dwellers? We did get travellers and merchants as visitors from time to time too, but they usually stayed even more distant. Always seizing us up, never accepting a single request. Except for that overly nice one … who was all too eager to help people out for some reason. Well, she was strong enough to back it up too. And did get something in return every time. But I'm not sure what it was with that lady; somehow she also emitted a very soothing aura. Even Gamrrr - who usually keeps his distance from strangers - and most astonishingly the wolves got attracted to her. The dark-skinned woman (she was called Tiara or something?) never really asked anything significant about the presence of the wild canines however, so I never got the chance to introduce her to the people of the Huntsman. I'm sure they would've gotten on well with each other. It's a bit sad.


End file.
